Sorcerer Scurvy
by HStorm
Summary: Co-written by Jen Kollic. After the disastrous defeat in "Theatre of Dreams", the Opposition resorts to germ warfare to shift the balance. WARNING: Rating changed. Chapts. 2&3 not suitable for readers under 18.
1. Sorcerer Scurvy Chapter 1

SORCERER SCURVY  
EPISODE 1  
  
Opening the door was infuriating. It wasn't the weight of the door,  
the ill-fit of its broad oak form against its outer frame, or even the  
uninviting darkness beyond it. Instead it was the creak of the door on  
hinges so old and so contorted by rust that they seemed no longer to  
serve any purpose other than to make the task of opening a door as loud  
and irksome as possible.  
No enemy could be more irksome to a thief at work than noise, as it  
meant that anyone nearby could discover him. The rattling whine of the  
hinges set his teeth on edge and heightened in him anxieties that were  
already brimming. But at least the door was now open, and that showed  
that young Eadric hadn't lost any of his old touch.  
Eadric had been a Saxon urchin in his infancy, and he was now one of  
the most skilled thieves of the north in his youth. He'd once worked as  
a page answering to the court of King John himself, but nowadays he  
tended to keep his head down after the dramatic way he had abandoned  
the Royal stronghold. King John was now long dead of course, but Eadric  
knew that there was still many a Norman aristocrat who was bitter about  
the Northguard interference in the Magna Carta, and the part Eadric had  
played in it. Therefore he tended to evade the upper echelons of  
England, making do with the down and dirty avenues of village life -  
especially thievery and serfdom.  
Thievery was something he was good at. He'd had to be to survive as  
far as his tenth birthday, and although he was now closer to his  
twentieth, these skills were still the largest barrier between himself  
and starvation.  
It wasn't food he was looking for on this occasion, however. What he  
wanted was money, and he knew that the easiest way to get it was to  
take it from somebody else. The somebody else in question was a man  
called Baits, a Lancastrian Earl of Norman extraction.  
Although the Anglo-Normans had lost most of their French holdings  
during the reign of King John, they still retained nominal control of  
the southern territory of Gascony. The Baits dynasty was one of the  
more powerful Houses in the region, which made them a big presence in  
the largest Gascon export industry - the trade in wines. The set-up  
was a classic bit of nepotism. The wines were shipped from the west  
coast of Gascony to the north-west of England, where their local  
cousin, the Earl of Branborough, would unload them and sell them  
amongst the alcoholic aristocrats of Henry III's court. The Baits  
family would then split the profits - the enormous profits -  
amongst themselves.  
Eadric was therefore attempting to pick his way into the wine cellar  
to see if he could steal a cask or two of Gascon rouge, which he hoped  
to sell at rock-bottom price to the local villagers who normally would  
never get to taste it. An act of rebellion in the name of the masses,  
and one he could profit by as well - illegal, self-enriching  
idealism. Well, that was the excuse he made to himself whenever he felt  
a pang of conscience about it. Which was to say never.  
Keeping his head down so low that he appeared to be bowing to the  
great Redeemer, Eadric pushed his way forward into the darkness... and  
immediately tumbled down a flight of hard stone steps that he had  
missed in the gloom because he'd been keeping his eyes aimed at his own  
feet and not the ground ahead of them.  
"Grumoomph!" he grunted coherently as he crashed mouth-first onto the  
cellar floor.  
He sat up, feeling more embarrassment than pain, and tenderly dabbed  
his fingertips at his lower lip, which was bleeding liberally.  
"The master thief's life is such a romantic one..." Eadric grumbled  
to himself under his breath as he got up. He had to narrow his eyes  
tightly to take in any of the details of this dingy chamber. It was  
really just a broad cave, damp and unpolished, with another staircase,  
this one made from timbers, that led up to a heavy oak door, beyond  
which doubtless was the castle-proper. There was very little masonry  
beyond some mighty timber struts that made sure the ceiling didn't fall  
in under the weight of the small keep directly overhead.  
But that was not a matter of concern for Eadric. After all, if the  
ceiling caved in he'd probably be dead before he knew anything about  
it. Instead, what drew his attention was the prize. There were iron  
racks set up in numerous neat rows all along each wall. In every  
aperture in every rack there was the pleasing rounded bulk of a cask of  
solid pinewood.  
Glancing from side to side to make sure he wasn't being watched (a  
redundant gesture if ever there was one - if someone was trying to  
watch him in this much darkness, they'd have lit a torch by now and  
he'd have noticed it igniting) Eadric trotted over to the nearest cask  
and examined with as expert an eye as he could manage. This was not, it  
must be said, as impressive as he would have hoped. For one thing an  
expert eye requires the benefit of light to be able to do its work. For  
another he actually knew squat all about wine, but he wanted to imagine  
himself as a connoisseur of the highest aristocratic breeding -  
riches, nice castle, plenty of Norman relatives in the family closet,  
and of course plenty of experience in the art of obtaining,  
understanding, and (most importantly) drinking vast quantities of, high-  
quality alcoholic beverages.  
He ran his hand over the surface of the cask briefly, as though he  
might draw knowledge of its contents by the magic power of his own  
fingers. He then took a firm grip around the cask and, taking extra  
care not to make noise, slid it out of its place in the racks and set  
it on its base on the floor.  
He found the corked aperture in the cask's lid and slid out the  
stopper with considerable effort. He then leaned close and savoured the  
longing bouquet of the liquid heaven within. The aroma was pungent and  
rich, warm and inviting. There was an undeniable pull of fruit, but  
also something more powerful superseded this. Something that seemed  
terribly tempting, devilishly so even.  
Eadric couldn't resist a small chuckle of delight. Most of his life  
he had made do with ordinary water. Occasionally - very occasionally,  
on those very, very occasional occasions when he had occasionally  
managed to "obtain" enough money for more than just the barest food he  
needed to stay alive - on those very rare occasions he had allowed  
himself the decadent luxury of purchasing a full pot of... wait for  
it... ale! Those particularly occasional occasions were damn special to  
him of course, and he wouldn't swap them for the world. But this, he  
could tell with just the one sniff, was different. This was really  
special.  
Tenderly, carefully, as though afraid he might somehow break it by  
daring to allow any part of his unworthy person to come into contact  
with it, Eadric reached his finger through the aperture of the cask and  
dipped it into the liquid paradise within. He then withdrew his finger,  
feeling the precious wine dripping oozily from the tip of his finger to  
the floor - oh the shameful waste of it! - and hurriedly ran his  
tongue over his finger.  
As the tiny smattering of wine tippled over his tongue, his taste  
buds took a grip, did a lot of aggressive "whassallthisthen"-ing,  
before the pleasure alarms echoed loudly around the inside of his head.  
As a result, the smile that stretched across the bottom of his face  
went all the way from ear-to-ear. It had never gone that far before.  
"Oooooooooooooooooooo nice!" he gasped in a voice so deep and hoarse  
with ecstasy that for a moment he almost didn't recognise himself. He  
sat down merrily on his backside and set the cask into his lap, eagerly  
licking his lips. Unsteadily fighting its weight, he raised the cask  
and tilted it backwards, and moved his mouth towards the lid's  
aperture. He tipped it a little further... a little further... a little  
further... a little further... and the lid suddenly came away against  
the weight of all the wine pushing against it. A deluge of rouge came  
gushing out of the cask and thundered all over Eadric, soaking him from  
head to toe in crimson.  
It got everywhere, all over his clothes, up his nose, in his hair  
(which paradoxically was suddenly far cleaner than it had been in  
years), and of course quite a lot of it down his throat. It was only  
after a few moments that he was giggling uncontrollably and rolling  
around in a wide pool of red wine on the floor like a childish maniac.  
There was a loud creak from above, which ceased the giggling fit in  
its tracks. A thin stream of light from fire torches shone down as the  
inner door swung slowly open.  
A voice called out from the top of the wooden staircase. It was a  
young voice, even mild, plenty of texture and substance, but almost no  
maturity or authority. "Wh-who's down there?"  
Silence. Legless as a newt though Eadric may have been - he'd never  
had much of a head for alcohol - but he wasn't so insensible as to  
not see when discretion was needed. He remained stock still, holding a  
breath so deep that his lungs were aching.  
"I am Lord Baits," continued the voice from the top of the steps,  
"and whoever you are down there, you're trespassing."  
This was not the most impressive display of hosting authority that  
Eadric had ever heard. In fact, it seemed like nothing more than an  
exercise in stating the obvious.  
Eadric suddenly realised that it was entirely possible that he was  
dealing with a total wimp. He'd never met Earl Baits of course, and had  
heard very little about him beyond his big-time business stakes, but  
he'd decided to make a break in strictly on the quiet as he'd expected  
an imposing figure of traditional Norman foul temper and Angevin  
arrogance. But looking up to the top of the stairs, Eadric could see  
only the silhouette of a man of modest build and quivering with minimal  
confidence. The lashings of wine that were swimming around moodily in  
Eadric's stomach were now telling him to try his luck.  
He got to his feet, in a shaky, unstable insurgent move that wouldn't  
have looked entirely out of place in a Transylvanian crypt, what with  
the gushes of scarlet fluid streaming down his cheeks.  
As he stood up, Eadric finally stepped into the light of the torches  
from above. The face of the man at the top of the steps, shaded though  
it was by the oppressive gloom, twisted in true terror as the eyes took  
in the ghastly apparition of serfdom drinking in the delights of upper  
class luxury.  
"Mother!" cried the young nobleman. "Oh God, Mother! Wine! Wine!"  
And with that, Baits turned and scarpered.  
"Hey, hey, hey," thought Eadric to himself proudly, "Mister Fearsome  
stalks these walls, and his name is Eadric the... er, eerie."  
Eadric the eerie didn't have quite the dashing, macho ring to it that  
the young Saxon had been hoping for when he'd set out upon this  
particular train of thought, but then trains of thought have an  
unpleasant habit of going off the rails and crashing into the sidings  
when spiked with testosterone-fuelled wit and copious alcohol. So he  
decided not to care. Eadric the eerie would do for now.  
Nonetheless, Eadric the eerie began to realise that now was not the  
best time to linger, as the courageous Lord of Branborough might even  
now have been bravely summoning up a few dozen guards to hide behind  
while they scoured the premises for wine-soaked interlopers.  
Admittedly, the only person Baits appeared to have addressed was called  
"Mother", and Eadric couldn't believe that it was the name of the  
Captain of the castle's men-at-arms.  
Nothing to get into a panic about then, but still it was best not to  
waste any more time. Eadric left the empty cask where it was and went  
back to the rack to pick out a couple of fresh casks, ready to haul  
them away to the nearest village. He found two that looked most  
promising (i.e. near enough for him to get at comfortably when the room  
was spinning and dancing its merry way round on its own axis) and  
managed to draw the first of them out of its slot with no difficulty at  
all. He then tried to draw out the next one and hit upon a snag.  
It wouldn't budge. Not an inch.  
He hauled on it again, a little more forcefully, and it gave a  
little. He gave one more massive tug and the cask popped out of its  
slot with a force such as no drunk man would have any chance of staying  
upright in the face of.  
Rubbing the freshly-acquired bruise on his posterior, Eadric got to  
his feet once more and, curious to see what had caused the obstruction,  
he inspected the slot in the rack that the cask had come from.  
He saw nothing at first. This was probably down to the dingy light,  
because as his hand brushed against the frame of the rack he felt the  
taut coarseness of a vine. It had a rough surface, with smoother, thick  
leaves at intermittent intervals along its length. The vine was coiled  
around the frame of the rack, and was so black from root to buds that  
it had blended into the dismal background.  
It also stung on contact. Unbearably so. Eadric snatched his arm away  
at once and cradled it in his other hand, cursing quietly to himself.  
No amount of intemperate language could soothe his pain though. The  
more carefully he tended the wound, the more the pain seemed to grow  
along his skin, and the more it seemed to intensify.  
In growing anxiety he tried smashing open another cask of wine and  
holding his hand in it, in the hope that something, anything, made of  
liquid might soak up some of the burning sensation.  
But... it just seemed to make it... worse.  
He was still hissing colourful metaphors and shaking his burning hand  
in the air when she was upon him. He hadn't seen or heard her open the  
door above, or glide down the wooden steps toward him, and now she was  
on him.  
He was able to make out only the barest details of the face, and the  
outline of her figure. She looked... old, very old in fact. She looked  
strongly stooped, frail, and quite, quite evil.  
These details did not make much impact on Eadric though (although  
some corner of his mind did register to itself, not requiring much  
shrewdness, that they were a little surprising). He was too busy  
desperately evading the large, heavy iron broadsword that the figure  
held poised above her head, and swung down towards him with as much  
force as her tiny form could muster.  
Despite being dulled by alcohol, Eadric's reflexes were still sharp  
enough to evade the clumsy attack. He was not confident of  
counterattacking though as he was unarmed, while the sword that the  
woman was once more raising above her head looked frighteningly heavy  
and sharp.  
Eadric did the only thing that remained in his brain to calculate. He  
turned and ran. He dashed up the harsh stone steps to the outer door,  
kicked it open - nice move, Eadric, now you've got a couple of broken  
toes to contend with on top of everything else - limped hectically  
down to the road and started running as swiftly as he could along it,  
disappearing into the darkness of the night.  
He wasn't far along the road when he realised how shamefully he had  
panicked. Yes, a strategic withdrawal had been in order, but he'd  
hardly needed to completely lose his head and dignity in the act of  
performing it. After all, the woman who'd attacked him looked like she  
must have been sixty years old or more, she wasn't likely to catch up  
with him.  
He only got a little further along the road when the pain in his hand  
began to overpower him again. The stinging sensation had in fact spread  
all the way up his arm, and was still spreading.  
A few more steps, and the pain in his toes was shocking its way up  
his leg with renewed insistence. Suddenly his whole body seemed to be a  
world of pain, and he could feel himself blacking out.  
No more steps. Eadric slumped to the ground.  
The cold night trundled on. Eadric did not move...  
  
* * *  
  
Lord Fear was not happy. In fact, he couldn't remember a time when  
he'd been less happy than he was now, and he had a big memory full to  
bursting with unhappy experiences. And most of those experiences  
involved being squashed flat under giant tumbling leviatha. For him to  
be less happy than that - and he was - left the veins of his temple  
throbbing with hot anger.  
He glared into the shadows through narrowed eyes, occasionally  
muttering soundlessly to himself in an impotent rage. He'd been so  
close, dammit! So tantalisingly, agonisingly close. He'd manufactured a  
perfect win-win situation for himself - either he'd have gotten  
control of Knightmare Castle as he wished, or he'd have had the next  
best thing; a ringside view of the slow, blood-soaked demise of the  
Lord and Dungeon Master of Dunshelm.  
Instead, Fear had suffered yet another defeat, the most humbling  
defeat imaginable... well, maybe not quite as humiliating as, say, a  
trip into the Pool of Veracity... but it was more costly than any  
before, not least because he had lost his finest creation - the  
Chronosphere!  
And that was all quite terrible enough, but, oh no, it wasn't  
finished there. That just wouldn't have been bad enough to satisfy his  
bad luck. That sanctimonious old fool Treguard, having already had the  
barefaced effrontery to steal his beloved Chrono, then had the sheer  
audacity to corrupt its technomagical power and use it to rebirth the  
Dungeon of Deceit itself, placing it firmly back under the control of  
he-who-must-be-bearded.  
The resurrection of a dungeon exclusively under the control of the  
Powers-That-Be was galling enough. But what really got Fear's goat,  
what really stuffed the firestick up his backside and hammered it deep  
and dark until he was red in the face, what really got to him was the  
sheer violation, the knowledge that Treguard had stolen (STOLEN!) the  
device Lord Fear had spent years (YEARS!) working to design, build and  
perfect! The ultimate work of technosorcerous genius, stolen and  
violated like some cheap little Ottaman...  
He stopped that thought where it was. This was no time for racism,  
not even against a race as contemptible and foul-smelling as the  
Ottamans. It was just that the level of righteous fury he was working  
himself into over this point was so astonishingly hard to control that  
it was difficult not to find someone to victimise, at least mentally.  
And of course it was the Powers-That-Be who were responsible for it.  
The dirty scoundrels, cunningly and maliciously outfighting and  
outwitting him like that. Of all the foul chicanery, it must have been  
one of those dirty foreign tricks that Treguard picked up on his  
journeys through the Middle East. Just not cricket, dammit! And to  
think they called themselves the heroes!  
Huddled into the furthest corner of the room, the assorted henchmen  
shivered at the sound of teeth grinding. Grippa and Rhark, knowing they  
were the most expendable and therefore the likeliest available punching  
bags, were doing their best to hide behind Skarkill and Raptor. The  
goblins were the most likely to be vaporised with a fireball while  
their master was in this mood, and even more likely to be the first  
ones sent packing as soon as he got a bit claustrophobic.  
Nobody dared to speak, though Skarkill was quietly wondering whether  
to ask if he should find Sylvester Hands, who was conspicuous by his  
absence (and in surroundings this cramped he'd have been noticeable by  
scent alone). That way Skarkill would have an excuse to make himself  
scarce until Lord Fear had had time to calm down.  
Time to calm down? A week ought to do it...  
"Yes, Skarkill?" grunted Fear.  
"F-Fearship?" stammered Skarkill with one of those sinking feelings  
that made his heart drop through the floorboards.  
"Don't play the innocent with me, Skarkill," snapped Fear. "I know  
what you're doing, you mutinous son of a dog's dog's dog's rectum!"  
"I-I ain't doin' nuthin', Fearship," Skarkill protested.  
"You're thinking at me," snorted Fear. "I can feel it. You're having  
a go at me in your head. You're thinking, 'Why the hell did we go for  
that stupid chronosphere plan, it's all Lord Fear's fault and it's  
so...' " Fear switched to his best Skarkill imitation, " '...unluvly!'"  
Fear spat at the floor. Some of the dust hissed and evaporated as the  
sulphurous sputum dissolved into it like ravenous dogs attacking a pile  
of meat.  
"I never thought anythin' of the kind!" Skarkill promised at the top  
of his voice.  
This only increased Fear's imperial-sized irritation. "Well you  
bloody should do!" he cried.  
Skarkill's expression sank from terror to outright confusion. "Eh?"  
"It was so obvious we should have just killed Treguard as soon as we  
caught him!" grumbled Fear. "You knew it, Lissard knew it... for crying  
out loud, even Bumptious warned me, and he was on their side!" Fear  
shook his head. "It's just not good enough. You should've stopped me.  
Why didn't you stop me? Give me one damn good reason why you didn't  
stop me!"  
"You'd've killed him," Raptor put in helpfully.  
Fear stopped and thought about this. "Well, all right, give me a  
second reason."  
"You'd have killed the rest of us for not stopping him from stopping  
you," suggested Raptor, "er, if you follow."  
"Of course I don't bloody follow!" scowled Fear. "The words came from  
your mouth. Once they've wheedled their way through all the impurities  
on your tongue and the rotten micro particles of semi-digested meat  
round your mouth, is it any wonder they're so covered in slop that I  
can't understand a word you're saying?"  
But Raptor didn't answer. It was clear he didn't understand a word  
Fear was saying.  
Fear rolled his eyes. "Why did I employ you?"  
"'Cos you sacked me, yer Fearship," pointed out Skarkill.  
"Did I?"  
"Yes. Unluvly."  
"So why are you here now?"  
"'Cos you rehired me when you realised how thick Raptor is," answered  
Skarkill. "And before you ask, you decided to keep him 'cos I only  
specialise in goblins, and you still needed someone to sort out the  
miremen."  
"Oh yes..." Fear scowled again. "I really need to clean out some of  
the chaff from my life."  
Skarkill suddenly felt a rare streak of boldness running through him.  
"Well go ahead then," he challenged, "like you can afford to."  
Fear looked up at Skarkill sharply, so astounded to hear a henchman  
answering back to him that he quite forgot to explode into a rage. And  
before he could remember to, Skarkill interrupted.  
"Face it, chief," he growled, "you've got no castle, you've got no  
purpose. Half your techno-magic's gone to pot..." He shook his head  
with a derisive frown. "You don't count for much at the moment - not  
luvly - and that means you can't afford to lose us."  
Lord Fear finally got round to losing his temper. "Now just a damn  
minute, you worthless little minion..."  
But Skarkill was now on a roll. "Or what? What if I don't give you a  
minute? What if I don't give you ten seconds? Like I say, we're all  
you've got left, and you can't afford to lose any of us. And like you  
said, it's your own stupid fault! You had Treguard there for the  
killin' but it wasn't enough for you. You 'ad to push for more. You 'ad  
to push for Knightmare Castle as well." Skarkill crossed his arms  
defiantly. "You screwed up, so you should start listenin' I say."  
It was then that he saw the blood-boiling expression on Fear's face,  
and his resolve finally started to slip.  
"Or somethin' like that..." he added weakly.  
But suddenly Fear calmed. He stared at the floor head in hands.  
"Oh goblin spit," he snarled, "I'm dispossessed, I'm cold and I'm  
damp, I'm surrounded by cretins, my minions are calling me names and I  
can't even bring myself to fry them alive for it." He shook his head  
and then asked what is surely the unluckiest question anyone can risk  
asking anywhere in the world, anytime, ever. "Can it get any worse?"  
The door above creaked open, and down the steps walked a small,  
hairless man with green skin.  
"Your Lord-nesssss...!" greeted the Atlantean with a bow so low and  
over-extended that it nearly tore the crotch of his pantaloons.  
"Oh terrific!" sighed Raptor. "The world's most valueless hostage."  
"What-nessss?"  
"Treguard let you go without charging a ransom," pointed out Lord  
Fear. "I think Raptor is pointing out that even then we were  
overcharged."  
"Overcharged?" protested Lissard, looking most hurt. "But Lord-  
nesssss, my firsssst work after my releasssse was to obtain ussss  
thesssse fine new premisssessss. Our new headquarterssss-nessss."  
"Ooooo, get her," mocked Fear, "'our new headquarters'!" Fear got to  
his feet, and, having to keep his head down a little to avoid bashing  
it against the ceiling, poked a finger at Lissard's arm. "You expect  
credit for this?" He gestured to the surroundings. "I wanted a proper  
base from which to launch a new counterattack. And thanks to your  
ingenious contribution to the world of estate agency, we've spent the  
last week stuck in the basement of the bloody Crazed Heifer!!!"  
  
* * *  
  
There was the chiming of a great, ancient bell, which rang vibrantly  
around the antechamber. Two advisors looked crestfallen. The other one  
just looked resigned.  
"Oh dear," mused Treguard evenly, "what a pity. Never mind."  
Majida was sat on one of the steps, eyebrows beetling against each  
other in disappointment. "Not fair, Treguard. Not fair at all! There  
only two places left in search zone..."  
Treguard smiled, with a just a touch of the old callousness from his  
earlier years. "Fair is about winning or losing on your own merits," he  
explained. "I'm afraid you did not merit any better than you got here,  
team. Harsh, perhaps, but true. One more dungeoneer bites the dust."  
Treguard climbed out of his throne and held out a hand. "The staff,  
Majida."  
Majida scurried over to collect the Staff of Light from the corner of  
the chamber. Treguard noticed that she was muttering to herself.  
"Well team," grunted the Dungeon Master, accepting the staff, "a most  
worthy challenge. But in the end you were unable to find where the  
Opposition have gone into hiding, and your dungeoneer has paid a sad  
price for venturing too far into dangerous territory. And now you must  
all venture in one single direction... home. Farewell."  
Treguard tapped the staff on the table, and the team of advisors  
vanished.  
"More agreeable way to travel, bringing that back," said Majida.  
"Quicker than those wardays."  
"If you mean, 'quicker than those doorways'," Treguard corrected her  
mildly, "then I agree."  
Majida looked uncomfortable about something, and Treguard was  
surprised to discover that it concerned him. "What's the matter?"  
Majida shrugged defensively. "It nothing."  
"Come on, out with it," insisted Treguard. "If there's a problem I'd  
rather we dealt with it now, instead of having you moping while the  
next quest is in progress."  
Majida looked at Treguard unhappily. "That exactly it," she scowled  
in a tone that had an accusatory edge. "That exactly my problem."  
Not for the first time in his life, and probably not for the last,  
Treguard couldn't understand what his assistant was saying. "What is?"  
"You," complained Majida. "You being crispwatch with everyone."  
Treguard rolled his eyes. "If you mean," he explained patiently,  
"that I'm being a crosspatch, again you may well be right. With the  
Opposition on the run, the dungeoneers should now be winning more  
challenges than they lose. We can't afford so many losers, not when  
we've got the chance to apply the finishing blow to Lord Fear's  
ambitions..."  
"You forget something, Treguard!" Majida objected.  
"What?"  
"They young," answered Majida. "little more than children. They need  
your patience. You no showing much at the moment."  
Treguard had to admit to himself, privately, that this was probably  
true. He was feeling impatient. With the victory at Marblehead and the  
resurrection of the dungeon, he felt sure that he had the Opposition  
pretty much where he wanted them, and he was determined to deal the  
finishing blow. Unfortunately, hunting and questing are not always the  
same thing. The main task for most of the teams in the dungeon's new  
era was not to claim quest objects but to scout the countryside and  
locate the Opposition, and they weren't proving very good at such open-  
ended adventuring.  
The main problem was that the people the dungeoneers encountered on  
their travels were never Opposition agents, and that tended to leave  
them off their guard. Sadly, people didn't have to be Opposition goons  
to be unfriendly, so the dungeoneers really needed to keep their guard  
up.  
The latest team had actually done well, in that they had covered  
almost all of their allotted search area. Although there was no sign  
that they were on the verge of locating the Opposition, they had almost  
done enough to be judged winners. But they had chosen to enter the  
Forest of Delamere when an alternative elf-path was available to take  
them around it. When the dungeoneer was attacked by wolves, they had no  
magic or usable clue objects, and the death knells soon followed.  
It had infuriated Treguard, as he was beginning to get the uneasy  
feeling that the Powers That Be were missing an opportunity. Contrary  
to the legend, a wounded animal is not most dangerous when cornered,  
but when it has wriggled out from under the hunter's thumb. Treguard  
was determined not to let Lord Fear out from under his.  
Unfortunately, while Treguard's spirit was willing, the flesh of the  
latest crop of dungeoneers was proving decidedly weak, and it was  
starting to get on his nerves.  
"I'll try to be less short with the next lot," he suggested without  
much conviction. He handed the staff back to Majida. "If you would be  
so good, Miss...?"  
"My pleasure." Majida walked to the door, raised the staff, drew a  
deep breath...  
"Treguard!" growled an oddly familiar voice from the Pool of  
Veracity, cutting Majida off in her prime.  
"What th-...?" muttered Treguard. He strode to the Pool, looked in  
and saw... ooooooh dear, oh dear! "Arawn..." he hissed.  
The sneering, green-garbed King of Anwin Wood was visible in the  
waters of the Pool. His ever-youthful expression looked rather less  
urgent than his voice.  
"Greetings, mortal," said the Elf-King with all the warmth of  
Aesandre's underwear during a blizzard. "By the terms of my life debt  
to your mercy," he continued with pained indignity, "I must inform you  
of ill tidings."  
"Really?" sniffed Treguard, wondering what painfully transparent  
endeavour to undermine the terms of his own obligations Arawn was going  
to attempt this time. "Please tell me, I'm speechless with  
anticipation."  
"This 'sarcasm' manner is most unbecoming to one of your assumed  
status, mortal," hissed Arawn nastily.  
"Get to the point, Elf-King."  
"Plague, Dungeon Master," answered Arawn. "The plague has struck in  
Anwin Wood."  
"Plaig?" asked Majida, confused. "What is dees 'plaig'?"  
"Disease," explained Treguard. "He means there's a dangerous disease  
spreading among a lot of people." He looked back into the Pool. "Do you  
have a few details, o King, or are you expecting me to work it all out  
for myself from what you've already told me?"  
"Over a five of my people are dead, Treguard," scowled the Elf-King,  
"and all the indications are that the plague did not originate in the  
forest. It did not even originate among Elfkind."  
"What do you mean?"  
"I mean," hissed Arawn, sounding genuinely bitter, "that the plague  
originated among you mortals. And now you've passed it to us!"  
  
* * *  
  
The song the down-and-out was singing was as tuneless as its lyrics  
were obscenely biological. The street echoed with much by the way of  
passion, and very little by the way of musical talent.  
The singer's clothing might have been described as sack-like, but  
this would be to underplay its qualities - it was a sack. His breath  
might have been described as unpleasant-smelling, but this would not be  
definitive enough - it was an unpleasant smell. His name was  
Sylvester, and he had his eyes on a particularly Tweety pie. The pie in  
question was a maid called Gretel.  
It had been love at first sight of course... although only in one  
direction. In the other direction it was loathing at first sniff. Poor  
Gretel had been trying to throw off this stumbling bundle of  
unseemliness for days, but from the moment he had taken in her willowy  
figure and her lilting, cosy voice, Sylvester Hands had been transfixed  
by her.  
"I love yoou-uur eyy-yy-yyes...  
They're unsurpaa-aa-aassed!  
O, to kiss your lii-iips...  
O, to feel your..."  
"Oh leave me alone, you horrid little..." began Gretel hurriedly as  
she tried to finish her chores.  
"...loo-oo-oove!" finished Sly, glowing with the pride of managing to  
hit no fewer than four correct notes during the course of the song. He  
put aside his lyre and beamed merrily at the maid, confident that he  
had seduced her with his romantic heart and soul, sure that he now held  
her like putty in his hands, and getting ready for the nice juicy wet  
one that she was doubtless about to plant on his...  
Gretel slapped Hands for, at his best (but still unreliable) count,  
the thirty-seventh time that week.  
"Leave me alone you grotty little bag of... of..." Synonyms failed  
her, "...grot!"  
Gretel turned and stormed inside the house. She was a rarity - a  
Saxon whose life had become much less dignified since the death of bad  
King John. She had been working as a serving maid at his court before  
his death, but now she was working as a washer-woman in a mucky village  
called Wolthorpe. So much for the glories of serving the aristocracy.  
To add injury to insult, some two-bit thief from the back streets of  
nowhere in particular had taken a fancy to her and had spent all week  
singing embarrassing and tuneless love songs at her.  
"Oooo, she likes me," Hands noted with all the visual accuracy that  
eyes ringed with the grime build-up of all the seven-and-three-quarter  
years since he had last had a wash can usually muster. "I can tell it,  
she does."  
Hands stumbled after Gretel in blind adoration... and was only  
slightly put out by the pain in his nose as she slammed the door in his  
face.  
He knocked on the door.  
"Who is it?" came the maid's scowling voice through the door.  
"Open up, sweetie!" called out Hands merrily, "I's gots a surprise  
for ya!"  
"Euurgghh!" came the horrified response. "I've already warned you  
about that, Hands! If I see you taking them down in broad daylight  
again..."  
"No not them!" Hands promised quickly. "Not this time! I's gots a  
different surprise this time."  
In so far as it is possible for an inanimate object to open with a  
long-suffering reluctance, the door opened with a long-suffering  
reluctance and Gretel stood framed in the doorway, giving Hands a very  
pained warning look.  
"All right, what is it?"  
Hands leaned forward and stuck his tongue out at her. It was a  
genuinely fascinating experience for Gretel to discover that it was  
physically possible for a human - well she was assuming he passed for  
a human - tongue to have turned such a vivid shade of black without  
the assistance of several cups of hemlock. She therefore didn't get  
round to feeling acutely sick at the sight.  
"I thorr-rrt," explained Sly, "I'd giz you the chance to be the firs'  
ever bird to gimme a Frenchie!"  
Now Gretel did feel sick.  
"HANDS!!!!" thundered an imposing voice along the street, causing the  
thief to freeze in his tracks, and presenting Gretel with the heaven-  
sent opportunity to duck back inside, slam the door shut, and bolt it  
closed four times over. (This therefore goes down as the only recorded  
moment in history that Lord Fear could be classed as the hero of a  
particular hour. It should be emphasised that such happenstance was  
entirely unintentional, and it should not be put down to anything  
beyond pure chance.)  
"Yes your Fairy-knees... er, Feariness?" responded Hands meekly, as  
he looked up to see a techno-sorcerous apparition of his master's face  
hovering above him.  
"Let that hipless lobotomy be," snarled Fear, "I've got an assignment  
for you."  
"Oooooo!" boggled Hands, much impressed. "An assign-... a sign...-m-  
..."  
"A job, yes," Fear corrected himself, with the barest stifling of a  
sigh.  
"For me?" Sly looked proud. "Didn't think I was that important..."  
"Important?" mused Fear. "You think this job makes you important?  
Yes, well self-delusion is a common curse among the mentally-  
deficient."  
"Mentally wot?"  
"Deficient," Fear repeated with thorough distinction, "which, just to  
clarify, is precisely what I think you are. But enough of me grossly  
overestimating you. We may have an opportunity to get back into the  
driving seat in this war, and that is where you come in..."  
"Me? Ooooo your worshipfulness! You's got the best possible man for  
any job..."  
"Yes but I'll be too busy on other things," growled Fear, "so I'm  
looking to you to sort out the minutiae instead." His image seemed to  
lean forward slightly. "Now listen carefully, Hands. You're going on a  
little journey..."  
  
* * *  
  
"Well?" snarled Fear into his crystal ball impatiently. "C'mon,  
Hands, you've been there for over two days now! You must have some  
idea..." The absurd logical contradiction leapt out at Fear even as he  
said it. "Scratch that. The day you have any idea I'll be very worried  
indeed."  
In the crystal ball he saw the hapless Hands sitting on a tree stump,  
looking bemused, frightened and inassertive. How fond Fear was of Hands  
in these moods.  
"There's deaded elves everywhere," reported Hands, looking about  
himself, unable to resist the impulse to gulp, "but I can'ts find wha's  
got 'em."  
"Hands," sighed Fear, "do you have any idea why I sent you to Anwin  
Wood?"  
"You wants me to does an assig-... job for you, yer Feariness,"  
answered Hands, "wot you can'ts trust anyone else with."  
"No," Fear corrected him breezily, "I sent you there because you're  
the minion I can most afford to lose. Keep that fact in mind if you  
don't want me to demonstrate just how much I can afford to lose you."  
Fear clicked his knuckles once or twice, just to emphasise the violence  
of the remark. "I don't need you to find me lots of dead elves, Hands.  
I'm already well aware of them. I wouldn't have sent you there in the  
first place if I weren't. What I need is for you to trace the disease  
back to source. It could be exactly the breakthrough we've been waiting  
for in the months since we lost Marblehead."  
"'Ow?" asked Hands.  
"You let me worry about the strategic details," suggested Fear. "Much  
as I appreciate your cerebral input, I tend to find it rather less  
useful than wheels fitted to the sides of my pet goldfish."  
"You don't 'ave a goldfish anymore, does ya?"  
"No," admitted Fear, "not since you went and tried to fit wheels to  
it and skewered its internal organs."  
"Oh yeah," nodded Hands at the memory, "tha's right. Honest mistake.  
You was just sayin' it was a shame they couldn't move on dry land and I  
thought..."  
"Yes all right, Hands!" interjected Fear, not wanting to retrace old  
ground again. "Forget that. What I'm saying is, we've discovered that  
the elves are dying out in their dozens, and the disease may be  
spreading among the human populace as well. I want to know what the  
source is. I've got you and Lissard trying to follow the paths of the  
disease back to where it all began. There must be a patient zero. Find  
him!"  
  
* * *  
  
Treguard was not in tears, as he had been at the death of Merlin over  
ten years earlier, but he was still very saddened. Eadric had been a  
loyal friend, and Treguard took the news that he had apparently been  
one of the ones who had died in the plague very much to heart.  
Apparently the village of Branborough had been one of the first to be  
hit by the plague, and no one who came near the first body to be  
infected survived longer than a couple of hours. Their first instinct  
on falling ill, naturally, was to go home and be tended to by their  
loved ones. Sadly, their loved ones would catch the infection off of  
them within moments, and so the plague had spread through the village,  
and then to other villages, with alarming speed.  
Treguard knew that Eadric had been living in Branborough for months,  
so there was little or no choice that the poor young man had survived.  
He took this news as a most bitter pill to swallow, but put on a  
brave face about it. Another quest had just ended in failure, and it  
was time to start a new one.  
"The staff, Majida..." he instructed a little bleakly.  
Majida nodded obligingly, maintaining as discreet and tactful a  
silence as she could manage while the old Dungeon Master tried to  
handle his grief. She walked to the door, tapped the staff lightly on  
the floor, and called out, with rather less gusto than usual, "Enter  
stranger."  
The door swung open... and Treguard and Majida both looked up in  
horrified astonishment.  
Lissard entered the room, carrying in his arms... oh no! Treguard  
swallowed a knot of cold phlegm that was souring in his throat as he  
recognised the decomposing corpse of Eadric.  
"Doesss thisss belong to you, Dungeon Massster?" beamed Lissard  
cruelly. "Carelessss of you to leave-nessss it lying around!"  
He dumped the body on the floor, turned, and scampered back out the  
way he came, giggling maniacally.  
"Gross!" snarled Majida, whose immediate instinct had been to hurl  
the staff in the direction of Lissard's retreating back. Fortunately  
she managed to retain enough self-control to resist the urge. She  
instead put the staff aside and moved to examine the body on the floor.  
Treguard stepped forward and put a hand on her arm. "No, Majida.  
Don't go near him!"  
"What wrong?"  
"It's Eadric," said Treguard, his face turning slightly white, "and I  
was right, the plague has taken him!" He glanced down at the body on  
the floor in horror. "We have to leave."  
Majida gaped at him. "Leave?"  
"For once, don't argue with me!" growled Treguard. "We have to go,  
now! Quickly, before we're infected too!"  
Hauling Majida after him with such furious urgency that he was  
practically carrying her, Treguard veered away from the corpse... and  
hit upon a major snag. The corpse had been left more or less in the  
entrance, and they couldn't get past it to get outside. So he turned to  
the other entrance and led Majida up the steps.  
They strode up three steps at a time, such was there alarm.  
When they got to the top, they hit upon another snag. The main door  
leading out onto the battlements was jammed!  
"Treguard, we sealed in!" exclaimed Majida.  
  
* * *  
  
In the shadows of the valley below the castle, Lord Fear stood with  
Skarkill, and they were both smirking as they saw Lissard stood upon  
the battlements waving the confirmation signal.  
"He's done it!" cried Fear in jubilation. "And I really thought he  
was going to sss-sss-stuff it up!"  
Skarkill gave Fear a look of admiration. Any challenge to the  
leader's authority was a thing of the past now. "Brilliant move... No!  
Luvly move..." he grunted.  
"Yes," nodded Fear. "Careless of Treguard to forget that the  
Chronosphere is still my magic, even when it's installed in his  
dungeon. And that means that every time he uses it, we can sneak in and  
out of Dunshelm as we please." He glanced into the crystal ball he  
carried in his hand. "Y'know, it was well worth the sacrifice to find  
that plagued body. Well worth losing a guffer like Hands anyway."  
In the crystal ball, there was the image of a small, bearded and  
scruffy beggar thief, shivering with pain and illness. Surely dying.  
"Poor ol' Sly," nodded Skarkill, sounding no more concerned than if  
someone had told him that he'd trodden on a line in the street. "Like  
you say, his loss is a small price to pay to find a weapon like that."  
"Just as well we found that Atlanteans are immune to the plague of  
course," admitted Fear, "or we'd have had real trouble moving the  
body!"  
"That's Treguard's problem now," grinned Skarkill.  
"Not for long it won't be," smiled Fear. "He and everyone else in  
that castle will be as dead as this ball of glass before they have a  
chance to think about it."  
Skarkill glanced at the crystal ball that was still glowing with the  
image of Hands in mortal agony. ""That ball, Fearship? It doesn't  
look..."  
Fear dropped the ball onto the ground, and crushed it underfoot with  
a single stamp of his heel. "Yes?"  
"Oh right," smirked Skarkill. "Luvly!"  
  
To be continued... 


	2. Sorcerer Scurvy Chapter 2

SORCERER SCURVY  
EPISODE 2  
  
"Murder is a terrible thing," mused Fear, rubbing his jaw while  
unable to keep the grin off his face. "You'd wonder what drives mankind  
to such lengths."  
"Mankind, y'Fearship?" grunted Skarkill. "What's that got to do with  
anything?"  
"With me? Nothing." Fear's voice was almost overflowing with gloat.  
"I ask out of curiosity, not relevance."  
Skarkill nodded. In truth, he had never been entirely sure what  
species his master was supposed to be, and it hadn't exactly been an  
issue he was in a hurry to pursue. So he returned to the original  
subject - murder, which was one matter of debate that neither he nor  
Fear ever tired of. "Well, what does it usually involve?"  
"Sex or money," spat Fear flatly.  
"Really?" Skarkill pondered this as they stared up at the battlements  
of Knightmare Castle. He'd killed a few times in his life, and he had  
no memory of physical fulfilment ever being a motivation for him. Mind  
you, killing was part of his job, so the motivation could have been  
money. "Not anger then?" he suggested.  
"That's about someone not getting enough sex," Fear pointed out, "or  
someone else having too much money. And it's the same with jealousy  
before you suggest it."  
"What about straightforward, honest-to-badness, all-out hatred?"  
asked Skarkill, who couldn't resist adding, "Luvly," and licking his  
lips.  
"That's a fear of sex," explained Fear, "and a lack of money."  
Skarkill blinked. "Okay. And how about..." He shivered slightly,  
"uurrgghh... love? Isn't that something people kill for?"  
"No such thing, dear fellow," scoffed Fear. "It's still just sex."  
Skarkill nodded. "There's always power too."  
Fear stopped in his tracks and looked at Skarkill with a devilish  
toothy grin. "You know, Skarks, old boy," he said darkly, "you're quite  
right. There's always power."  
  
* * *  
  
Power was at stake, and so lives were at stake as well. The lives in  
question were those of Treguard and Majida. They were both stood at the  
top of a staircase with a door ahead of them that was barred closed  
from the outside. Behind and beneath them lay the dungeon antechamber  
through the door at the foot of the staircase. There was nowhere else  
to go, which was a problem, because there was a rotting corpse in the  
doorway of the antechamber... the corpse of a plague victim.  
Strictly speaking, it wouldn't exactly be murder if they were to die  
like this, but germ warfare. That made it no less murderous.  
Treguard and Majida were huddled at the very top of the steps, making  
futile gestures to try to distance themselves from the body below, like  
leaning backwards against the door and jostling shoulder-to-shoulder.  
"Thees reedeeculous!" cried Majida all of a sudden. "We no gon'  
escape like dees!"  
"No," agreed Treguard, the sarcasm gushing off his tongue like a  
torrent of phlegm, "let's head for the front door." He made a polite  
gesture. "Ladies first."  
Majida rolled her eyes. "You never think I 'lady'," she pointed out.  
"Big, strong Dungeon Master can go first."  
"Let's not have an argument now," suggested Treguard, noting to  
himself that even after all these years, sarcasm was still wasted on  
this particular genie.  
"Why not?" demanded Majida. "Nothing else we can do when we stuck  
here." She thought about this. "Well, maybe one or two other things,"  
she admitted, "but with you that be necrophilia."  
  
Treguard was so impressed that Majida had managed to pronounce the  
word correctly, he managed to miss the insult entirely. "Where did you  
learn that word?"  
Majida shrugged. "Merlin's library still exist. I go there to read  
sometimes."  
Treguard boggled. "What book would there be in Merlin's library that  
would discuss the subject of sleeping with the dead?"  
Treguard realised straight away that he didn't want to know the  
answer to that question, but it was too late; Majida answered anyway.  
"His diary."  
This was almost enough to provoke Treguard into spluttering, "What?!"  
but he realised just in time that that way lay madness. He just shook  
his head. "Just be quiet! We don't need tittle-tattle or gossip about  
the departed, we need solutions." He pointed down to the foot of the  
staircase. "This is as far as we can get from Eadric's corpse, and it's  
very clear that the disease spreads very easily through the air. We  
won't have long."  
Majida suddenly snapped her fingers. "We need two things."  
"Yes," grunted Treguard, "a door leading outside and a door-handle."  
"No!" growled Majida, "we need help from outside, and something to  
slow spread of disease down."  
"All right," nodded Treguard, "and we have access to neither. So  
let's start again, with something a little more practi-..."  
"Shut up, beard-breath!" snapped Majida with so sharp a suddenness  
that Treguard didn't dare to lose his temper at being addressed in such  
a manner. "You s'posed to be man of magic. And I am genie..."  
"I've already reached my own opinions as to what you are, thank you,"  
retorted Treguard. "Now if you don't..."  
"Just listen," Majida insisted, to which Treguard fell silent with  
just a touch of irritation. "I am genie. I have magic!"  
Treguard glanced up at her, the sweat of fear and exasperation  
already forming on his brow. Time was running out. For all he knew the  
plague was already in the air around them, and Majida seemed to be  
thinking that now was the time for delusions of grandeur. "What?"  
"Magic!"  
"What magic?"  
"All genies have some magic," explained Majida. "Just no much."  
"What do you mean?"  
"Hey, in dees job we grant three wishes, ah?"  
"What?" scoffed Treguard. "If I wish out loud that you could make the  
plague go away, you'll just snap your fingers and the world will be  
saved?"  
"No," admitted Majida. "you no release me from lamp. You no get three  
wishes."  
"I did release you..."  
"From bottle, not lamp!" growled Majida impatiently. "For Dungeon  
Master, you no know very much about magic do you? You release genie  
from magic lamp, you get three wishes. Nothing else count."  
Treguard shrugged. "Fine, so what magic have you got then?"  
Majida put her hands on her hips sternly. "I already tell you. We  
need help from outside. We need to stop disease spreading upstairs."  
She snapped her fingers and a vague purple haze surrounded them.  
Treguard felt his nose tickle and sting as the thin miasma insinuated  
its way inside and he sneezed several times on reflex.  
"What is this stuff?" he wheezed as more of the haze got into his  
throat.  
"Great mystical Hispanic potion," explained Majida, her voice turning  
increasingly ethnic and husky. "We call it 'El Poww-dahov Tahl-coom'."  
Treguard thought about this. "I see," he nodded, not fooled at all.  
"And how exactly is a cloud of pink talcum powder supposed to stop the  
disease spreading?"  
"It won't," admitted Majida, "but it might slow it down, ya?"  
"Fine, I'll pretend I believe that," sneered Treguard. "Then what?"  
"Last bit of magic," shrugged Majida, and snapped her fingers again.  
A tiny ball of white energy emerged right in front of Treguard's face,  
with thin tails of wispy power emanating from it. "We need help, you  
call for it. Hurry up!"  
Treguard looked blankly into the ball of light. "What do you mean  
'call'?  
"I no have any magic left, Treguard!" protested Majida desperately.  
"Hurry up and speak into this before it too late."  
"Call whom?" asked Treguard reasonably.  
"Anyone!" cried Majida. "Hurry!"  
Treguard looked into the ball of light and shrugged. What did he have  
to lose? "Hordriss!" he called urgently. "Hordriss, can you hear me?"  
  
* * *  
  
The shivers suggested that the man was cold, but the sweat that ran  
through his face, his grotty beard and over the clammy expanse of his  
neck and torso would have suggested that he was burning up inside.  
And paradoxically, both states of being were true about Sylvester  
Hands, for he was dying. The surface of his skin would have burned to  
the touch - were there a person alive who felt the inclination to  
make contact with him - but beneath the surface a consuming chill  
pervaded his very bones.  
He lay sprawled in a miserable heap on the side of a road, where he'd  
been dumped callously by his 'friends' after they'd realised that he  
had contracted the plague.  
Every so often he would wake. And that was very cruel on him.  
"L-Lordsh-ship..." he stammered in his delirium. "Lordship... don't  
leave me 'ere... don't let me 'urt like this..." He whimpered  
miserably. "Please... pleeeease....!" And then there would be merciful  
silence.  
  
* * *  
  
"One comprehends of course, Dungeon Master," nodded Hordriss with a  
typically graceful bow of the head. "The bitter tidings of this hideous  
plague were never likely to be slow in reaching one's ears."  
The image of Treguard in the mirror was beginning to fade and become  
obscure.  
"We haven't got long, Hordriss," hissed the Dungeon Master. "We've  
resorted to clouding the air between us and the corpse in the hope of  
barring the plague from reaching us, but it won't buy us much time."  
"Indeed not," Hordriss concurred, "and I fear that from my present  
position I will not be able to lift yourself, Majida, or any other  
occupants in the Castle by sorcerous means."  
"I feared you'd say that."  
"In any case," continued Hordriss, "it stands to reason that Lord  
Fear would have anticipated such a move on one's part. He doubtless  
will have some counter-spells in place to prevent one's direct  
intervention."  
Treguard nodded. "What can you do?"  
Hordriss stayed calm. "You have friends beyond the walls of your  
fortress, Dungeon Master," he explained. "I will contact them for you,  
and arrange their involvement."  
"Thank you," said Treguard, breathing out heavily as the strain of  
death's proximity began to take its toll on his nerve. "Please get them  
to hurry, Hordriss, whoever you contact."  
Hordriss smiled slightly, in a way that Treguard wasn't sure he  
liked. "Maintain your calm and dignity, Treguard," he instructed  
casually. "One has the matter well in hand."  
"Yes, but I'd feel better if you moved the hand with the matter in it  
a little more qu-..."  
Suddenly the image of Treguard's face in the mirror faded and  
vanished into a cloud of pearl white. Hordriss turned from the mirror.  
"Patience is a virtue, Dungeon Master. All good things come to those  
who wait... including survival. There seems but one obvious place to  
look to for the assistance we require."  
  
* * *  
  
Anwin Wood was not as Hordriss remembered it from his only previous  
visit. It seemed colder and emptier somehow. Not that it had exactly  
been a landscape of bustle and activity previously, but there was  
undoubtedly a sense that there was something missing now. Or perhaps  
someone.  
Yes, that was it. The elves were never quick to draw attention to  
themselves, but now they weren't just hiding from the eyes of men with  
souls... many must have fled in terror. That was not good news for  
Hordriss.  
"Revelante, Arawn," he growled in his croaking, gravelly voice. "Elf-  
King, show yourself to me now."  
"You druids," came a scornful voice from behind Hordriss, "always  
presuming to summon me... Your boldness is admirable enough to kill,  
Confuser."  
Hordriss turned to see the tall, lithe figure draped in green and  
gold robes, the pale face twisted into a resentful jeer, his sword  
unsheathed on the silken belt at his waist. The sparkling, untarnished  
diadem of his Kingship was perched proudly on his brow. Most of the  
face was as youthful as any mortal child's, and yet the sparkling eyes  
told the tales of centuries beyond counting in a single glance.  
"Perhaps," sneered Hordriss, never one to be intimidated by a back-  
handed compliment, "and yet you still answered."  
Arawn did not move in the slightest, and yet there still seemed to be  
an air of him somehow retreating from Hordriss slightly, as though such  
a blunt statement of the obvious had somehow frightened him. And why  
not? It was a point of arrogant elfin pride to believe in the  
inferiority of mortal men, and so to have it pointed out so flatly to  
no less a figure than the Elf-King that he'd had to answer the summons  
of a mere druid must have wounded him very deeply.  
"State your business, druid," suggested Arawn.  
"One is a warlock," retorted Hordriss defiantly. Time may have been  
in short supply, but there was still enough for his ego to receive due  
attendance, "druidism is a relative term."  
"Whatever," shrugged Arawn, a mannerism that Hordriss found almost  
disconcertingly mortal, "like your druidic ancestors you presume too  
much in my realm."  
"Your realm may soon be in tatters, Arawn," said Hordriss, "the end  
of thousands of years of your rule."  
"I will survive forever, warlock!" spat Arawn with what appeared to  
be fierce confidence, but the agitated movements of his eyes showed  
otherwise.  
"You, perhaps," conceded Hordriss, less than convinced, "but your  
people cannot. Admit it, O King, they are already dying in their  
dozens. You may live on to rule the greenwood for another millennium,  
but what will that mean when you have no subjects to rule?"  
"It would not be an issue," hissed Arawn, "were it not for the  
unseemliness of your mortal ways..."  
"Again, that may even be true," said Hordriss, who knew very well  
that it was not, "but does that change the nature of your current  
needs? You must accept that it does not matter whose fault it is. The  
survival of your entire race will be in the balance, no matter who must  
accept responsibility for the plague's emergence."  
Arawn did not answer this time, a stubborn confirmation to Hordriss  
that the Elf-King knew that he was right.  
"So," continued the Confuser, "perhaps you would care to discuss with  
one what we are to do in our mutual interest of preventing the plague  
from spreading any further?"  
Arawn seemed to swallow slightly, as though the pain of accepting  
that he needed help from a mere mortal was overwhelming him - which  
it was of course. "Talk, warlock."  
Hordriss drew in a deep breath. "You and I must investigate this  
disease under conditions that protect ourselves from its fearsome  
miasma. In order to do that, however, I believe we must trace it back  
to its source."  
Arawn considered. "You wish the aid of the elves to trace the source  
of the plague then. Very well, I shall accede to this. But no more than  
that."  
"Any more may not be necessary," answered Hordriss.  
"Good," nodded Arawn stiffly, "we shall send out my agents to search  
and investigate." He hesitated from undermining his own authority any  
further than he already had done, but then asked, "Do you have any  
recommendations as to whom I should send?"  
"Pickle, Velda and Dervlinne have all had past dealings with  
Dunshelm," said Hordriss, "and Dunshelm is one of the places I am  
endeavouring to protect. Do they still live?"  
"They do."  
"Then I recommend you send them, as their motivations will be less  
indifferent."  
Arawn hesitated once again, but then bowed his head very briefly. "So  
be it."  
  
* * *  
  
Time. Such a baffling and unknowable quality, and yet one that  
affects everyone and everything more completely than any other in all  
the many planes of reality.  
To Treguard it had been an even more enormous factor than ever in  
recent times. It had been the very meaning of the Chronosphere that  
Lord Fear had used to try and destroy him, and then it had been the  
lifeblood of the dungeon's revival.  
And now it was running out. He and Majida remained huddled at the top  
of the steps, watching the torches on the walls above them flickering  
ineffectually as they burned low. They wondered just how much time they  
had left, but it could be a cruel master, and it was quite happy to  
deprive people of any warning before it withdrew its tender mercies  
from them.  
"Treguard?"  
Treguard was shaken from his reverie by an unusually timid and  
squeaky voice emanating from between Majida's lips.  
"What is it?"  
"I... I scared, Treguard," said the genie, her voice trembling very  
slightly.  
Treguard blinked at her in astonishment. He had seen her scared  
before. He had seen her panicky, he had seen her rattled, he had seen  
her jittery and unsettled... but he had never heard her admit any such  
things to him before. To his surprise, he found himself smiling at her,  
sympathetically of course (which was something of a surprise in  
itself). He put an arm round her and let her rest her exhausted head on  
his shoulder. "So am I, Majida," admitted Treguard with such a softness  
of tone that she had to strain to hear him. "We know this disease. We  
know it's here. We know it's around us. We know what it can do, and we  
know it could take us any time." He suppressed a shudder. "I don't  
think I've ever been so scared in my life."  
  
* * *  
  
Time. What was it exactly? Hands didn't know, indeed he was now quite  
unaware of its passage, let alone its nature. Several days had passed  
since his body had been dumped by a roadside. He was starved,  
dehydrated, and ill. People who passed him immediately turned and ran  
in dread, knowing that he must have been one of the countless plague  
victims, and that any contact would surely mean death for them.  
But...  
He was not dead. Not yet.  
  
* * *  
  
Pickle paused where he was, looked right, looked left, then resumed  
walking. He was sure that he could actually hear the germs of the  
plague as they scurried in and out of every tangled bundle of roots and  
between every blade of grass.  
It had been nine days since he had departed from Anwin Wood with  
Velda and Dervlinne, and in that time the plague had accelerated and  
now seemed to be everywhere in the land. In every village, every town,  
every borough, the dead bodies were accumulating, and it was as if  
there was no escape when the very air seemed to be against everyone. As  
a result Pickle was even more jumpy and hyperactive than usual.  
Walking a few steps ahead of him was his younger sister, Dervlinne.  
Tall and lithe, fair of hair and disdainful of manner, her haughtiness  
both infuriated and fascinated mortals in equal measure, especially the  
very few men who had ever met her, even ones who were old enough to  
know better.  
Walking beside her was the hunter maiden, Velda. Her raven hair, her  
sceptical, unfriendly eyes and her fierce lips were perhaps enough in  
themselves to scare any plague germs from trying to infect her.  
Unlikely as that was, she still effected the hostile manner, probably  
to reassure herself more than anything else.  
Dervlinne wrinkled her narrow nose slightly. They were presently  
walking over heavy marshes in bright morning sunshine. There was a  
stony path less than fifty feet to their left that they could have  
followed, and it would have made their progress much easier if they  
had, but the path was of mortal construction, and both Dervlinne and  
Velda felt an aversion to using such contraptions. Pickle had long  
since moved beyond such arrogant prejudices, but decided to indulge his  
companions on this occasion as they didn't really have the time to  
argue about it.  
This was partly because they had already wasted a day on a futile  
journey to Wolfenden where for many years now had lurked Dervlinne's  
twin sister whose help they had hoped to enlist. But she had refused  
rather rudely on grounds of a longstanding dispute with Dervlinne, and  
they'd had to resume their search without her.  
Perhaps oddly, the most impatient to push on was the one with the  
most tenuous links to the Northguard, Dervlinne. She had aided and  
served Treguard obediently enough during the recent Chronosphere  
crisis, but she had never hidden her resentment of being drawn into the  
pettiness of mortal affairs. Perhaps that is what fuels her impatience  
now, her brother mused. The sooner the task is done, the sooner she can  
end her involvement in mortal ways.  
In truth he doubted it however. Little as he wanted to think about  
it, he sensed with much pain that Dervlinne was still feeling stung by  
the very public rejection by their sister, and was choosing to throw  
herself into the present task with as much force as possible to help  
keep her mind off the humiliation.  
Pickle did feel for her. He had never liked Kulaemii very much, but  
she was still family and a feud between two members of any family will  
always affect the others, even in among elves.  
"We still don't know how long honoured Treguard has left," fumed  
Dervlinne as they walked, "but I would suggest there is less time ahead  
of us than behind us."  
Velda did not answer, and Pickle was feeling too perturbed to offer  
an opinion. Just the thought of this plague set his nerves jangling  
uncontrollably, and at such times statements exploring the numbingly  
obvious were best met with silence - otherwise they would almost  
certainly be met with angry words, which were never a very constructive  
addition to a conversation.  
"We should make more haste," insisted Dervlinne haughtily when she  
realised that her previous remark would receive no response.  
"And rather less noise," suggested Velda.  
Dervlinne bristled a little. As the daughter of another Elf-king she  
had a superior manner, and it was never difficult to offend her  
dignity. Velda, who had once betrayed Arawn himself to Treguard, had  
never been afraid of doing that to Royalty. Also she privately loathed  
Dervlinne on a personal level.  
Sensing that his sister was about to launch into a pompous tirade,  
Pickle quickened his step until he was walking directly between them.  
"We should reach the human settlement we seek in the next hour," he  
said firmly, "which will be soon enough."  
"We do not know that," sniffed Dervlinne.  
"I know the Dungeon Master," retorted Pickle with a big brother's  
authority, "he will survive."  
"But for how long?"  
"Long enough for us to find a cure for him!" hissed Pickle,  
exasperation bringing him close to losing his temper. "Enough now,  
Dervlinne."  
Dervlinne pouted slightly. She may have been by far the youngest of  
the three elves, but she still liked to imagine herself as the most  
important, and to be spoken down to by anyone, even by her older  
brother, very much rankled with her. But she remained silent, to  
Pickle's and Velda's considerable relief.  
They pushed on in silence for the next few hours, soon entering the  
Gorge of Bran. The village of Branborough was located on the far reach  
of the gorge, and as that was where the plague was supposed to have  
broken out from, it seemed the likeliest place to head. Of course the  
truth was that this was a powerful disincentive for them as the last  
place they wanted to head was the source of an epidemic that had  
already claimed thousands of lives among the mortal population alone.  
"Is there anywhere in the world," Velda couldn't keep herself from  
asking, "I'd less wish to be than here?"  
"One," suggested Pickle. "Trapped within the walls of Dunshelm with  
the plague closing in on you."  
  
* * *  
  
Within the walls of Dunshelm, Treguard and Majida had long since  
given up trying to comfort each other or themselves. They were still  
trapped where they had been for the last ten days. Only through vague  
crumbs of Majida's magic had they been able to conjure up just enough  
morsels of food and water to keep them alive. As it was, both were  
still dangerously hungry, thirsty, tired and delirious. Majida's tricks  
for damping the plague germs' path toward them were proving  
surprisingly effective at least, but she was now almost out of  
strength.  
The lack of space to move about, the hardness of the stone steps that  
they sat or lay upon, and the perpetual inertia were taking as great a  
toll on their physical well-being as the deprivations of food.  
Inevitably what few conversations they were capable of consisted  
entirely of exhausted insults and aggravated scowling. This was little  
different to the composition of their entire relationship of the last  
eight years of course, but at a time like this it was really damaging.  
Treguard's eyes flickered open in response to the sound of music  
playing. How long he had been asleep he had no idea at all. He had lost  
most sense of time after about the fourth day in the face of the  
hardship, the inertia and the numbing monotony. All days and nights  
just seemed to blur into each other.  
He tried to sit up, but the joints in his waist had long since  
refused to co-operate any further until their present fuel needs had  
been attended to, and he couldn't attend to them. So he slumped back  
onto the hard stone step, and rolled his head weakly to the side to see  
the source of the music.  
To his exasperation, he saw Majida was sat a couple of steps below  
with her back to the wall and her knees tucked under her chin, staring  
into the palm of her right hand, where there was a tiny glittering  
image of a girl. The girl was dancing in rhythm to the music. Majida  
appeared to be crying, which was not a sensible thing to do when she  
was dehydrated, but she seemed not to care about anything but what she  
was looking at.  
"Majida!" croaked Treguard hoarsely. "What the blazes do you think  
you're doing?"  
"Dying slowly," answered Majida without looking up. She sounded so  
distant.  
"You're wasting your magic!" Treguard snapped as forcefully as he  
could. "Your magic's the only thing that can keep the disease from  
reaching us. It's the only thing keeping us from starving, and you're  
wasting it... on music?"  
Majida's eyes slowly rolled in Treguard's direction. There was a  
still a lingering spark of defiance in them, a familiar air of refusal  
to accept any rebuke no matter how rational or fair it might have been,  
but there was also a bleakness Treguard had never seen there before.  
She was hungry, thirsty, and so very, very tired of feeling the icy  
fingers of fear working their insidious way up her spine and choking  
her throat.  
"It make no difference," she murmured. "Hordriss no get here in time.  
We no live another night. And if we do, what for?"  
"Survival is its own reward, Majida," gasped Treguard, trying to put  
a conviction in his voice that his weakened condition would not allow.  
Majida's eyes glazed over with a strange kind of exhausted anger. "We  
live one more day?" she growled. "So what? It just be like today. Pain,  
pain and more pain. I rather use magic on music than food now." She  
paused and added, rather unkindly, "I rather die listenin' to music  
than you snoring!"  
Treguard's face coloured slightly, but then she had always had that  
effect on him, and right now he didn't have the energy to lose his  
temper. Especially as he happened to agree with her.  
He had all but given up hope as well  
  
* * *  
  
It was bad to be ill when there were so many lives counting on your  
success, but that pressure was on Hordriss now. He, Arawn, and several  
elfin knights had been working for some days studying a sample of blood  
taken one of the elves who had died of the plague. It had been a  
hazardous business just finding a way to extract the blood without  
becoming infected themselves, and since then they had studied  
obsessively, all the while trying to ignore the nagging fear that any  
of them could go down with the symptoms at a moment's notice.  
The symptoms as they understood them appeared to be some kind of  
hideous burning sensation under the surface of the skin that would  
rapidly spread throughout the body, until every inch of flesh felt to  
the sufferer like it was ablaze. Bizarrely, the skin would be cold to  
the touch of anyone else who came into contact (who would almost  
certainly fall ill themselves within moments). After a while the pain  
would be so overwhelming that the sufferer would lose consciousness. As  
they slept, the skin would lose its consistency and become discoloured,  
first turning a greenish tinge, then grey, than finally pitch black. By  
this stage of course, if the victim hadn't already died then they were  
about to.  
None of them had gone down with those particular symptoms as yet, but  
they were all showing signs of frayed nerves and, Hordriss in  
particular, a shortage of sleep. But Hordriss knew not to give into  
that.  
One of Arawn's youngest henchmen - a golden-haired stripling of  
barely twelve hundred years - ran into the tree hut they were all  
working in, carrying a large leather-bound book under his arm. "The  
tome you requested, Confuser," he said, eagerly proffering the book to  
Hordriss.  
"One's thanks," Hordriss acknowledged, accepting and opening the book  
without delay. He started reading feverishly.  
"Records of ancient diseases," grunted Arawn with unhelpful  
scepticism. "Do you have any idea just how many diseases there have  
been in mortal history?"  
"No," grunted Hordriss, refusing to look up from his research, "that  
is but one of the broader details one is attempting to assess."  
"Well I recommend you assess more quickly, warlock."  
"I shall," replied Hordriss with impressive coolness, "when you cease  
distracting one."  
And he read on.  
  
* * *  
  
The gorge was shrouded in the gloom of dusk before the three elves  
were even halfway along its stubborn, winding length. The ground  
underfoot was harsh, stony and uneven, and in spite of centuries of  
toughening against such things, it hurt and scratched their bare feet.  
For all the tiring pain and nervous fear however, Pickle's  
determination remained undented. He was driven, not just by fear of his  
life, but fear for the life of another to whom he still felt a great  
bond of loyalty, even though he had long-since left his service.  
He might have chosen to return to the service of his liege, but  
Pickle was still a Northguard, still one of the Powers-That-Be, and  
that the Dungeon Master retained a great demand on his loyalty. That  
was no longer with the insistence of the Elf-King, Pickle had recently  
come to realise. And he had also realised he no longer cared what the  
Elf-King's thoughts were on such matters. It even pleased him.  
The other two were flagging some way behind him now. They clearly  
wanted to stop and rest, so Pickle found the patience to stand still  
and give them time to catch up.  
Seeing him stop walking seemed only to motivate the other two to slow  
down even further. To Pickle's surprise, he felt a surge of anger  
rushing through his green blood. "I thought you were complaining about  
us being too slow, Dervlinne!" he snapped. "Move faster!"  
Dervlinne was taken aback to be addressed so harshly, but kicked her  
heels into gear and hurried up to him. Velda took a little longer as he  
rebuke hadn't been addressed to her, but nonetheless she too wasted no  
more time.  
"We can pause here to rest," suggested Pickle. "If you like."  
Dervlinne nodded and slumped to her knees, exhaustion seeming to seep  
from every pore of her. Velda made a more dignified attempt to sit  
cross-legged on the ground, but she too was unable to hide how jaded  
she was feeling. They'd been walking for more than three days now, and  
while elves always had considerably more resilience than mortals, there  
was still a limit to how far that resilience could stretch.  
"Why?" muttered Dervlinne through agonised clenching of teeth.  
"Because you are both tired," answered Pickle.  
"No!" snorted Dervlinne. "I mean why are you being so... so..." She  
couldn't find the right words.  
"So forceful?" suggested Pickle. "So driven? So pushy? So unwilling  
to be patient?"  
Dervlinne turned these suggestions over in her mind for a moment,  
then nodded stridently. "Yes."  
"So like you in other words," sniffed Velda, taking the words right  
out of Pickle's mouth.  
Dervlinne looked at Velda defiantly. "Quiet, minion!" she snapped  
pompously. "I and Pickle are both of Royal blood..."  
"Blood of a Royal family long since overthrown," pointed out Velda,  
unimpressed.  
"...And," persisted Dervlinne forcefully, "you are nothing more than  
a rebel who was given a fortunate pardon by our liege. You answer to  
me, you do not insult me..."  
"And I am your brother, and your elder," Pickle interjected softly,  
"and I agree with Velda. I have been like you all day, and I'm going to  
keep being like you all day because people I care about need us to  
hurry."  
"Care?" Dervlinne blinked. "What do you mean... 'care'?"  
Pickle looked at his young sister and sighed. She may have learned  
much from fighting alongside Treguard during the battle for the  
Chronosphere, but she still had such a very, very long way to go, far  
longer than she probably realised, to understand the ways of mortal  
men. He had learned so very much during his time at Treguard's side in  
Dunshelm, and it was because he had always been willing to learn.  
Dervlinne, with her instinctive high-mindedness, seemed to sneer at the  
very concept of mortals being worth the bother of learning about.  
"You know the price of so much," Pickle noted sadly, "and the value  
of so little. I believe that is the mortal definition of cynicism."  
"Caring and cynicism?" Dervlinne now looked very confused. "You use  
such mortal terminology. I'm beginning to think that you spent too long  
with the honoured Dungeon Master - he has warped your reasoning..."  
"On the contrary," growled Pickle, his anger setting in again - the  
strain of their quest had taken its toll on everyone's tempers, even  
his own, "I learned a great deal from Treguard. Some of it most of our  
kin would find alien and bizarre. Incomprehensible in fact. But I saw  
enough to realise that it is all still true."  
"And what did you learn exactly?"  
"That loyalty can be a choice, Dervlinne," said Pickle, his lean eyes  
full of fire and intensity, a telltale sign of his passion for the  
subject. It quite startled Dervlinne, who had rarely seen that in any  
non-mortal. "Elves see loyalty as something that should be extracted.  
Mortals give their loyalty by choice or not at all. They might submit  
through fear instead but that is not loyalty..."  
"Such nonsense!" scoffed Dervlinne. "Loyalty is a matter of  
obligation, not choice."  
"To those without a soul, perhaps," shrugged Pickle, finally sitting  
down to rest his weary feet, "but not to them. An obligation can be  
fulfilled, but loyalty lives on even after that."  
Dervlinne looked utterly confused. "How? Once an obligation is spent,  
neither person owes anything to the other and..."  
Again Pickle cut her off in mid-sentence. "That's what I learned  
though, Dervlinne. The 'obligation' as you call it lives on beyond the  
events that embody it. In fact, it's even possible for two people to be  
in each other's debt at the same time."  
This time it was Velda's turn to snort derisively at what Pickle was  
suggesting. "A logical impossibility."  
"Not an impossibility," insisted Pickle. "Friendship has a different  
definition to their minds, but I find it still makes sense. We never  
understand its true nature, our kind, until we learn it from a mortal."  
"I do not follow any more than your sister does."  
Pickle sighed quietly to himself, and decided that he was too tired  
to persuade them of something that they probably couldn't understand  
until they saw it in action anyway. He gave up and lay back.  
Then he decided he was damned if he was going to give up here and sat  
up again.  
"Look," he snapped, just getting a little testy, "friendship is not  
business to a human. That's the difference between their kind and ours.  
It is not about mathematics therefore."  
"I never said it was," protested Velda, not sure whether she was  
being entirely truthful.  
"It certainly sounded like it to me."  
Velda looked to Dervlinne for support, but it was clear that she had  
lost track of the conversation some time before.  
Seeing that his audience was running low on retorts to offer, Pickle  
decided to press home the point. "Mortal friends," he explained, "do  
good turns for one another simply because they are friends, not  
necessarily because there is an imbalance of favours."  
"I still don't understand."  
This did not surprise Pickle at all, but still he persisted. "In  
human circles, a great man can do a hundred favours for a humble man.  
The humble man does him but one in return. An injustice we would think,  
yes?"  
"Indisputably," answered Velda firmly.  
"And yet," continued Pickle, "because they are friends, the next time  
the humble man is in need, the great man will help him again, for he  
feels he will owe the humble man his favour."  
Now Velda had lost track too. Her eyes were wide with perplexity.  
"How can he owe him anything, when he is owed ninety-nine favours?"  
"I told you, in human terms this is not about mathematics. It is  
possible for two people to owe each other the same thing at the same  
time. I've seen it and I understand it."  
Velda shrugged. She was clearly too baffled even to remain  
interested. "You must be the only one."  
Pickle let out another sigh, and this time he did give up. So  
exhausted with all the bickering, all the fear and all the stress, he  
lay back, rolled onto his side, and was asleep before he'd let out his  
next breath.  
  
* * *  
  
At nightfall on the battlements above Knightmare Castle, it was  
Raptor's turn on guard. He had been nervous before - after all, the  
plagued corpse was less than fifty feet from him. But all he had to do  
was make sure that Treguard couldn't escape from the keep, which  
appeared impossible as long as the door was kept sealed, which he and  
his other sentries had done without difficulty. As long as they didn't  
have to go inside there would surely be no problem.  
What was starting to nag at Raptor was that they'd surely have to go  
inside at some point to make sure that Treguard had in fact died. Lord  
Fear (whom Raptor noticed was still refusing to come anywhere within  
fifty yards of the castle itself - was it any wonder everyone's  
confidence of avoiding infection was so low when their leader was being  
so trippy?) was sure that he would be able to detect the moment when  
Treguard finally expired, but, and this was the other thing that was  
making for a lot of unease among the Opposition goons, that moment  
seemed to be an awfully long time in coming. It suggested that either  
Treguard was a lot more resilient than they'd imagined, or more likely,  
Fear's detection sorcery wasn't working and they would eventually have  
to go in to make sure.  
Raptor leaned on the battlements and gazed out across the haunting  
twilight landscape of hills and valleys. It was truly bewitching this  
region of the north, so full of colour and yet so overwhelming in its  
shape and towering scale. At heart, Raptor was not a sentimental man by  
any stretch of the imagination, but even he had to bow to the  
unsuffocating beauty of this place. He truly hoped that the Opposition  
would be able to claim the castle after the plague had passed, just so  
that he could come up here when he was off-duty and gaze out across the  
landscape.  
Ah such a pleasant dream to cling to.  
  
* * *  
  
Hordriss let out a colourful curse under his breath. The elves in the  
hut with him looked up at him in some alarm - they hadn't heard such  
Latin slang used since the fifth century, when they'd spied on Mordred  
taking a pee in the river and getting attacked by a stray otter that  
sank its teeth deep into his...  
"What is it?" demanded Arawn, judging correctly that now was not the  
time to get sidetracked with amusing reminiscences.  
Hordriss looked up from the tome he was consulting and fixed Arawn  
with a serious look. "The plague," he muttered voicelessly, "one  
believes one has identified it."  
Arawn paused, drawing a deep breath. "For once, Confuser, you don't  
happen to be boring me. Keep talking."  
"It is not quite as we thought, Elf-King," explained Hordriss. "And  
it will make it doubly difficult for us to create an antidote if your  
scouts don't find the source."  
"Why?"  
"Because if one's research is accurate," concluded Hordriss, "the  
disease is not a naturally-occurring phenomenon. It is an ancient and  
deadly weapon."  
  
* * *  
  
The tread of Dervlinne's feet on the ground next to Pickle's left ear  
was enough to stir him from his sleep. He sat up sharply and looked  
around in some alarm as he realised that it was now some time after  
sunset.  
"How long did I sleep?" he cried.  
"Three hours," answered Dervlinne.  
"Three..." Pickle almost choked. "You let me sleep for three hours?"  
"You needed rest, we all did," called Velda from off to one side  
where she was reloading her knapsack. "We are now ready to set off  
again though."  
Pickle sprang to his feet in a hurry. "We should have set off at  
least an hour ago..."  
"Maybe," grunted Dervlinne, still looking confused, "but we didn't.  
So instead of complaining about it, we should move now."  
Pickle hurriedly gathered his own knapsack from where he'd left it,  
paused to find his bearings, and resumed his march along the gorge. The  
two female elves glanced at each other wearily, and started to traipse  
after him.  
Ten minutes of walking rather more quickly than was altogether  
comfortable led them to a point in the hill side with a path leading up  
to high ground. Dervlinne suggested that they should climb the path so  
that they could get a clearer idea of their position. Pickle accepted  
reluctantly, and Velda quickly skipped up the hillside. When she  
reached the apex, she surveyed the territory around them and then  
blinked in surprise.  
"Pickle," she called down.  
"What is it?"  
"There's a human edifice not far north from our position. Should we  
investigate?"  
Pickle and Dervlinne glanced at each other and exchanged nods. "Yes,"  
Pickle called back up to Velda, "I would say it's as good a place to  
start as any."  
  
* * *  
  
The 'edifice' to which Velda had referred was a low keep at the peak  
of a nearby hill. It was very square and blockish in shape, a  
traditional early Anglo-Norman design - built more for strength than  
practicality in battle.  
There was no moat or outer wall surrounding the keep, in fact it  
didn't appear to resemble a stronghold very much at all, more a rather  
grand and intimidating mansion house. This might not have been a  
problem if the keep had been decorative, but in truth the rough stone  
walls were of a grey that was aesthetically unpleasing.  
There was a heavyset oak door in the front wall, doubtless barred and  
bolted from the inside, and supported by iron struts along its full  
length. It was the most eloquent way of saying, "No entry!" without the  
employment of either written language or gunpowder.  
"Shall I knock?" asked Dervlinne.  
"No need," came a young voice from the other side of the door.  
The elves looked startled and instinctively adopted defensive  
crouches, while from the door there was the sound of keys turning in  
locks and bolts being slid to one side. Then the door swung open with a  
whine like a thousand hungry bloodhounds. Framed in the doorway was a  
young gentleman of modest build and fair hair. His open expression and  
handsome features were, to Pickle's mind, reminiscent of many Norman  
aristocrats. But the lack of arrogance in his demeanour and his almost  
innocent expression was entirely at odds with this.  
Dervlinne looked unimpressed by the figure, while Velda blinked at  
him in surprise. Not that she would ever admit it, but she had never  
been slow to appreciate a handsome mortal face, and she clearly found  
this mortal's face pleasing enough.  
The man took in the image of three elves standing on his doorstep  
while offering them a nervous, shy smile. "It's not often I have  
visitors," he rather squeaked, "not since they moved the main trade  
track down into the Gorge itself."  
"You don't seem surprised to see us," noted Dervlinne, "for someone  
who doesn't have many visitors."  
"Oh I'm surprised," the young man replied, "especially as they appear  
to be not entirely, er... human."  
"That is a fine compliment," nodded Velda.  
The man looked at her closely, and his expression seemed to soften  
still further. It was clear that he appreciated too. "Oh where are my  
manners?" he said with a start. "Do come in. My name is Baits,  
incidentally, I own these lands. May I know your names...?"  
The castle's interior proved to be a fine example of English  
understatement, and thus all terribly un-Norman. The rooms were modest  
in size, and cautious in decoration, like a troll walking around with a  
hunch out of shyness.  
Bait himself was inquisitive in that way that shy people always are  
- quiet and withdrawn at first, but once he started talking he  
couldn't shut up.  
He was nattering away eagerly as he showed them into the main  
audience chamber of his home, where they all seated themselves on  
simple but comfortable cushioned chairs.  
"Please make yourselves at home... I'm so glad to hear that someone's  
finally decided to grab the nettle with this awful plague... nobody  
else seems to be prepared even to investigate, let alone try to find a  
cure, and I mean I know there's very little hope, but that's better  
than no hope, which is what we'll have if people just keep covering  
their ears and pretending nothing's happening, and I mean surely  
someone's got take responsibility, right? Not for the plague itself  
obviously, I mean nobody can be blamed for that I don't think, bad  
things happen sometimes, it's just life, isn't it? But I mean the well-  
being of the country is a responsibility isn't it? And that means that  
those in authority have to start accepting the responsibility of  
finding a way to keep the plague from spreading any further, don't you  
agree? Well don't you?"  
"Er..." began Pickle.  
"I thought you would," beamed Baits. "Anyway, would you dear people  
like to have dinner with me? It's not much... only sandwiches and  
milk... but you're welcome to share it. I..." At this point a strange  
expression trundled across his face and succeeded in doing something  
nothing else present had so far been able to achieve - it made him  
stop speaking.  
"Is something wrong?" asked Pickle politely.  
Baits suddenly turned and headed out of the room, calling over his  
shoulder, "I'll be back very shortly. I just have to check on my  
mother, as she's unwell at the moment. Help yourselves to food..."  
And like that he was gone. Pickle and Dervlinne looked puzzled, while  
Velda looked disappointed.  
"My greatest ambition in life," sniffed Dervlinne, "is to meet a  
mortal who can make sense. My quest goes on."  
"It is good news that he has left the room in fact," murmured Pickle  
softly.  
"Why, don't you like him?"  
"Likes and dislikes do not enter into the matter," said Pickle.  
"He means he doesn't," noted Velda. "Baits is young, intelligent and  
brave, so Pickle has three good reasons to be jealous."  
"We need to search every possible location in the area for a source  
of the plague," Pickle pointed out, refusing to be sidetracked by  
personal abuse , "and most homeowners tend to be unco-operative about  
having their property defiled."  
"Are you suggesting," gasped Velda, sounding quite affronted, "that  
we search the mortal's dwellings... without his permission?!"  
"Oh yes," nodded Pickle.  
Velda considered this. "All right."  
  
* * *  
  
Dervlinne took the top floor, Pickle the ground floor, Velda the  
lower levels. They moved with all the silence and stealth of their  
people, all the while wondering what the devil it was they were  
searching for.  
Pickle was stubbornly putting off the obvious conclusion that the  
hunt here was pointless. After all, if the plague had originated in  
this castle, surely Baits would have died ages ago. Wouldn't he?  
Dervlinne was also wondering why they were bothering, but that was  
simply because she had been wondering that from the word go. She had  
such a loathing for mortal affairs. The small detail that the plague  
was not just a mortal affair but had long since drawn in the elfin  
population of England, she somehow managed to overlook.  
Velda had found her way down a staircase into a long, ill-lit  
corridor that appeared to go nowhere in a hurry. She also wasn't sure  
what the point of being here was, but she was happy enough to stay for  
now. She found Baits to be rather pleasing company for a human, and  
certainly not the sort she was in a hurry to be parted from, which was  
unusual for her but not unheard of.  
She passed a door that had the words "Do Not Enter" scrawled on it in  
white chalk. Never one to resist such a glaring invitation, she gently  
turned the handle and pushed forward. The door swung inwards easily  
with little noise and she stepped inside.  
Within the room she found... very little. It was almost empty apart  
from a thin haze in the air that seemed to emanate from a small marble  
fountain in one corner of the room, from which a steady stream of water  
flowed easily from the ceiling to the floor, where it ran down a narrow  
groove to a drain in the other corner of the room.  
And that was about it. It was, in truth, quite dull to look upon but  
for some reason Velda found herself rather captivated by some simple  
charm she apparently could see in the fountain. In fact, the longer she  
stared at it, and the more she heard the mesmerising rush of water, the  
less she wanted to leave the room.  
She had always taken a secret joy in water. When Arawn had posted her  
to guard the Vale of Vanburn some years earlier, she had been quietly  
delighted, for the caverns of the Vale had many small springs of water  
that she liked to drink and sprinkle over her fevered brow in those  
uneventful moments when her duties grew tiresome.  
Listening to the gentle lilt of the waters as they streamed from the  
fountain, she was reminded of the Vale. She smiled to herself oddly and  
walked forward toward the fountain and, tentatively, ran her hand under  
the stream. She took a taste of the waters that pooled in her cupped  
hand, and her smile broadened. They tasted... golden. She tasted them  
again, and then again. Then she tilted her head back and laughed a slow  
laugh. Then she stepped under the stream and allowed the golden waters  
to rush over her, to cleanse her and revive her.  
She had been walking for days on end after all, and she wanted to be  
clean for a while. Nothing wrong with that surely...  
She slowly ran the water all over herself, over her face, down her  
neck, through her hair. She undid her jerkin and threw it aside so that  
she could let the water run over the rest of her skin. How better to  
wash away any plague germs, she reasoned. All the while her eyes  
remained closed, which was unfortunate really. Because if they hadn't  
been, she would have realised that there was now someone in the room  
with her.  
  
* * *  
  
Velda had never been good at hiding her nervousness. She was quite  
capable of panic and at times of panic she was also capable of  
violence. For her to be confronted with a mortal male staring at her  
with undisguised lust when she was in a state of partial undress took  
her to a point some way beyond panic.  
When she turned and saw Baits was standing there, the desire burning  
in his eyes, she gave a slight shriek and assumed a crouch, trying to  
defend her position while also trying to preserve her own modesty with  
her arms.  
Baits took a step toward her, and Velda immediately found herself  
forgetting any previous attraction she'd felt towards him. She shrank  
even further from him. She glanced about herself and saw, to her self-  
disgust, that she had dropped her knife when she'd thrown aside her  
jerkin.  
She tried to make a move toward the weapon, but as soon as she tensed  
her muscles she felt a strange dizzy sensation rushing through every  
fibre of her body. She put a hand to her head and tottered for a  
moment.  
"I see you like my spring water," noted Baits, who was speaking with  
his usual mildness, but it was now tipped with an unmistakeable edge of  
arrogance.  
"Sp-spring water?"  
"Most fun a mortal can have, that stuff," sniffed Baits, gesturing to  
the water stream, "with his clothes on and without getting a headache  
in the morning. Unfortunately," he added, looking amused, "it does give  
headaches to other species. And as for keeping your clothes on..." He  
paused and eyed Velda's exposed body hungrily, "well, that was your  
call I suppose."  
Baits walked over and grabbed Velda by the wrist. She responded with  
a typical defensive growl, but somehow it didn't seem nearly as loud or  
fierce as it normally would, and as she tried to lash out, she found  
the strength in her arms failing her.  
"Don't bother," whispered Baits into her ear, "there's enough  
sedative in your system to fell a pack of wolves. It makes you..." He  
licked his drooling lips, "...very, very suggestible."  
Velda swallowed weakly, finding she could scarcely lift a finger  
against him. She uttered a pained moan of defiance and violation as she  
felt his hungry lips running over her throat and his clammy hands  
groping unceremoniously over her exposed skin, but she could muster no  
more resistance than that.  
  
* * *  
  
Pickle and Dervlinne had both concluded quite quickly that they were  
going to find nothing of importance, and not wanting to risk attracting  
the hostility of the castle's inhabitants, they decided to return to  
the audience chamber.  
When they got there, they found that neither Velda nor Baits had  
returned.  
"Contemptible commoner," sniffed Dervlinne. "I knew all along she'd  
be nothing but a liability. I'd better go and find her before Baits  
catches her looking where she shou-..."  
"Yes you should," agreed Pickle hurriedly. "Go on."  
Again Dervlinne bristled. Her status as a princess had ended  
centuries earlier when their father had been overthrown by Arawn as  
King of Elvenhame, but even so, she was not used to being interrupted,  
and it seemed to be happening an awful lot on this quest. Nonetheless,  
she offered no complaint but headed off in search of Velda.  
  
* * *  
  
Baits had Velda in his power, and it was power that he wanted more  
than anything else. That was the true value for him.  
For the first time, Velda thought she understood why some mortals  
felt the desire to take their own lives. How could anyone live with the  
invasion, the humiliation, the...  
"N-no!" she managed to stammer with just a little force.  
But words were not going to offer any defence.  
Then the door swung open behind Baits. He turned from Velda and saw  
the lithe figure of Dervlinne standing over him, gaping in disbelief at  
the sight ahead of her.  
"Velda!" she cried. "Have you no decency at all?" She shook her head  
in disgust. "I knew you'd taken a fancy to this germ, but in all the  
worlds I'd never imagine you'd stoop so low as to bond with a mortal!  
You must be..."  
"H-help..." Velda managed to whimper.  
"Quiet!" growled Baits, striking Velda hard across the cheek with the  
back of his hand.  
Dervlinne still hadn't quite put two-and-two together, but her elfin  
blood was outraged at the sight of one of these germs a mere mortal,  
daring to raise its unworthy hand to a maiden elf.  
"Why you miserable little ape!" she cried and leapt at Baits without  
thinking.  
She may not have appeared that dangerous, but she was an elf, and she  
was not only very lithe and agile, she was also far stronger than she  
seemed. Baits was hurled backwards away from Velda by the force of the  
collision. Dervlinne and Baits crashed into the floor together, where  
he managed to wriggle free of her grip enough to find and scoop up the  
knife from where Velda had left it.  
Dervlinne didn't notice that her opponent was now armed, and leapt at  
him again, just as Baits raised the knife in her direction. The force  
of the impact between them bowled them both to the floor again... where  
they both froze in their violent embrace, staring into each other's  
eyes, both looking shocked.  
Then the blood began to trickle free and to pool on the floor... and  
it was green blood, not red. Dervlinne's grip on Baits' arms loosened,  
and she slowly slid off him onto the floor with a last, strangled gasp  
for air.  
Velda let out another soft moan of anxiety as she saw Dervlinne fall.  
She then heard another, much louder moan and looked up to see Pickle  
stood framed in the doorway, his eyes fixed on his sister in horror.  
  
* * *  
  
Standing on the hillside beneath Dunshelm, Lord Fear smiled to  
himself, and then turned to his henchman, who was sipping a cup of warm  
grog against the harsh cold of the night.  
"Skarkill, dear chap?"  
"Fearship?"  
"A correction to the conversation we had some days a go - when you  
said power was the third possible motive for murder, you were wrong."  
Skarkill looked nonplussed at this. He was quite used to Fear telling  
him he was wrong, so he just shrugged and turned his attention back to  
his grog.  
Fear continued anyway. "Even there, the motivation to kill is still  
only sex or money. Or rather sex and money. Because," he added with his  
most sickening smile, "that's what power is all about."  
  
To be continued... 


End file.
